Redefinitions

Massive bar and entertainment room


Massive (but low) stage in the holiday camp




Panto book - it works like a book, only its very big.

1. The Work

Not at all dissimilar to the processes involved in writing a lit review, there's a point that is reached when 'on the road', that you realize you have no idea where you are. You know where you started. You also know where you are going. And, you also have a plan, typically visualised as a route ( that you recognize is subject to en-route modification) of how to get from A to B. But at some point, some unidentifiable nexus of space, time and cognition, it dawns on you that you have absolutely no idea where, in respect of that route, you are.

Thus I find myself pulling into yet another motorway service station somewhere between Bristol and Hull and looking at the map that is on the wall by the entrance. Not the casual glance of the long distance driver, who sat-nav equipped doesnt care where they are, nor the smug glance of the on-time, organised family vacationer who knows they wont miss their plane. Instead I smear myself against the map, tracing roads with my finger tip, reading place names aloud, hoping for clue - a thirsty man looking for water in the desert.Work compadre and friend, the incomparible Tom. A seasoned road warrior. Taken in either Gloucester, Cheltenham, Cirencester, Portsmouth or somewhere else. Breakfast before we part ways for a few days.

This fever has been occasioned by a second full week on the road made necessary by the necessity of a temporary return to my career as a touring theatrical carpenter. I'm slogging through English seaside resorts and holiday camps, installing summer shows and staying yet again in identikit towns where the search for a good meal in a town you dont know is, at the end of the working day, a pointless, yet daily essential, ritual. I'm loving it.

Part of the loving it is a repositioning vis-a-vis holiday camps. There are several brands of these in the UK, the most popular of which I have just finished working in. I have to confess that as the son of a family of cultural snobs (who somehow manage to to redefine culture so that 'soccer' is somehow an acceptable cultural activity, highbrow even, and holiday camps are somehow not) I arrived at the camp with fairly negative preconceptions. British comedians have long laboured jokes about the perpetual, artificial cheeriness of the staff and have liked the surrounding walls to the walls of a prison camp. These characterisations havent diluted some people's enthusiasm for the holiday camps - they are fully booked up to a year in advance. However, the all-inclusive nature of the experience with childrens' playgrounds everywhere, shops, bars, movie theatres, live entertainment and organised fun aplenty are deemed, by some, particularly intelligentsia-with-children, to indicate a laziness on the part of holidaymakers who choose these places. Somehow, if you are not searching a remote hillside for a half forgotten church in 40C, pulling your screaming, reluctant children with you, getting bitten by God knows what or tramping disrespectfully over the graves of other culture's ancestors, you are somehow denying your children the essentials of being on holiday. I should make it clear that I am talking about people with children here. Childless people, as RHB and self and other 'dinkies' are, do not have to contend with deciding where to take our little darlings. But we are subjected to the accounts of other people's vacations, and I have heard both sides - smug parents of 'educated' children who have seen the Cistine chapel and hedonistic camp-dwellers who revel in the 24 hour fun of the all-inclusive.

And listening to both sides, and now having been to the camps, can say that I am firmly in the hedonist camp for a number of reasons. Firstly, the snobby intelligentsia-with-children can ruin things for other people by taking kids where they plainly dont want to go and should'nt be. You dont take a barking dog to watch Mahler, and I think the principle is exactly the same with children. They can ruin good things. Furthermore, I would bet a large amount of money that most kids would prefer to be swinging round a monkey net that's within lolloping distance of a soda fountain than hiking in pristine wilderness where you have to watch your water carefully. There's also the problem of justification. Hedonists just take their children to the camp, dump them with the children's entertainers then very quietly get drunk, happy in the knowledge that the kids are safe. When you ask them about their holiday, they usually just say "The Kids had a good time", partly because they themselves sometimes cant remember much of it, and partly because its true - the kids had a good time. The intelligentsia-with-kids on the other hand spend hours telling you how they were worried that "little James would'nt like Guernica, but you know what, we think he got it! He was very quiet afterwards, I think it really struck a chord with him ". Arse, I say. Actually what happened is that little James was struck dumb with boredom and realised that this torture was likely to continue unrelentingly until he becomes an adult and he can go to Ibiza by himself and drink himself into unconciousness.


It may seem that these musings are those of a crazed man, one too long away from home. And there's probably something in this, but while away, I did fall in love with these camps. For people with kids they are very, very good. They are cheap, there's no massive seven hour car journeys to local attractions, there's safety on site. Bt despite seeing the light, the musing and the love begins to wane - the camps arent for me, and anyway, I'm here working. I start to wish for home. I wish various things, like being prodded awake at 5am by Toshack wanting to go out and hunt, or back in the Queens drinking crap beer and getting told about football by a know nothing local with a red face. I actually start to wish I was back in my office writing my literature review, dreaming of an easy life on the road as a scenic carpenter, so its with relief that I turn the car in the general direction of North as I leave Minehead. Before I get home there's one more task to perform though. Its will turn out to be the biggest challenge yet.Two not-intelligentsia. At least when this was taken which was after, or during some cocktails. And champers. And beer. Taken at Christmas 2011.

2. The Visit

I suspected none of e challenge ahead as I crest a hill overlooking Bristol town centre and identify number 43 in a row of brightly, Mediterraneanely, pastel painted houses. I am greeted at his door by Will, who is animated by stupidity:

"Hi M___" he says "I'm reading about social capital and I'm animated by its stupidity"

Actually, and in the interests of complete honesty, Will doesnt say this. Instead, he welcomes me in, offers me a cup of tea and then says:

"Hi M___. I'm reading about social capital and I'm animated by its stupidity".

In truth, he doesnt quite say this either, but it would have been good if he had, as 'social capital' is about where I am in my literature review, and this 'concept' (although I prefer to think of it as 'notion') is why my lit review writing experience is exactly mirroring my on-road experience of being completely lost. It is however, true to say that Will is reading about 'social capital' and is bedazzled by the way this 'notion' is justified, interpreted and applied. The most stupid thing about social capital, we agree, is the way it's exponents claims it explains everything:

• children are an investment and you only invest in them because production of same increases your social capital.
• any learning you undertake is informed by economically rational decision processes
• any sports activities, socialising you do, television watching you engage in, sex you endure, parties you attend or casual hello's in the street

All of these, according to the mainstream of economic 'thinkers' are actions or processes that can either be explained by, or used in the accumulation of, social capital. For the second time this post I am forced to use the word 'Arse', closely accompanied by the word 'my'.

The most terrifying thing about this though is that like Hell in the Middle Ages, or learning styles for those who have read (and believed) about them, it is all becoming true. Networking is an activity preferred to bullshitting, it is a crime to engage in pointless activity (we walk to get fit), we only go the the pub (after puberty) to talk about 'something' and a little read blog must be 'monetised' or of interest to someone ("how many readers do you have?", "does it make any money?" "have any publishers approached you?"). There has to be a point to every thing we do under social capital.

3. The Light Bulb

Needless to say, later that night at Willandsals/Salandwills (existential angst over gender preference in naming places - I need to stop reading!) we get pointlessly drunk, talk utter bullshit, listen to some obscure music that doesnt increase our 'credibility', eat wierd food and dont agree to start a consultancy business. During the evening, Sal gets quite close to having a serious conversation then returns to sanity with an utterly deluded observation (that re-defines some words, including the word "finished"), by claiming that Large Mansions is substantially complete. Satisfied that absolutely nothing has been accomplished by the evening's activities I retire to the North Parlour of Salandwills. We do however, agree to do something constructive the next day, so after an evening of rest, I awake, with a hangover, ready to change a light bulb. It is the challenge I referred to earlier and takes four hours.Pointless fake chimneys about to be installed on a new build house somewhere between Birmingham, France and the US. Pointless is good.

Strictly speaking, it is not just a light bulb I am to change, it is, in fact a whole light fitting. But the minor under-exagerration is, I would argue, allowable, because all that is involved in the operation is the unscrewing, and then re-screwing of six small wires, plus a bit of electrical cable cutting. It is little more than changing a light bulb. It is also hard to imagine a task in which I could more effectively increase my social capital by demonstrating the kind of ruthless competence that it pays to display in such work. A ten minute project successfully completed would put in the minds of my friends that here is a handy fellow - if we ever need to pay anyone to do some work, this chap would be just the ticket. I would have banked loads of social capital and therefore I should view this project as a job that I have something invested in.
But that's not how it goes. It takes four cups of tea, the mains electrics switched off so often that the fridge defrosts, thirty minutes of Internet consultation and a spectacular amount of swearing to do a job that I have done hundreds of times. "Why?" I hear you ask "might this be?". Well its because the business isnt social and the social isnt business. No matter how you redefine it.

Things to do while trying to write

THe other day, Wikipedia went off line. Naturally, I could not make any progress at all on my Masters/PhD/Thesis thingy. Then I saw this, which is brilliant(BYW, the video is legit), and realised that even if a hurty left arm is considered an excuse, I still dont do enough stuff. (

I therefore decided that I would do some gardening - fresh air (well as fresh as Hull allows), doing something physical, saving myself some money - I would plant some vegetables. I dug out all the seed trays I could find, and a bit of old compost, spaded some good soil out of the beds we have lying dormant and mixed the whole lot up. This was working, I began to feel really fresh, active , happy etc so I poured the soil mix into the seed trays, filling about fifteen of the blighters.

Its not giving anything away, by telling you in advance that by now, my brain, which I have been using a lot recently, had completely washed its hands of all this activity and had slunked off somewhere for a good sleep. No, I should perhaps hasten to mention, I did not cut my foot off with a spade (whichI have never done), nor did I break a rib by smashing the spade handle into my torso (something I did when we were renovating Large Mansions), concuss myself by walking into a wall (twice), get a splinter in my eye (once) or even merely step in cat poo (repeatedly). No what I did while not serious, nevertheless presents a dilemma. I planted all the seed trays with spring (or green or scallion) onion seeds. Which means that in about six months, Large Mansions will be flooded with industrial quantities of a vegetable that doesnt keep, is more of an occasional herb, or salad addition than anything, and six tonnes of which will all come to full maturity at the same time.

Simple, you may say, just get rid of the seedlings when they appear, and plant something else, and this is a sensible suggestion. The trouble is I cannot do this. It feels too much like murder when the little cute seedlings appear to just pluck them out and discard them. So it looks pretty much as if in six months time, our diet will consist of variations on spring onions or we'll have to get a pet that eats them. The next time wikipedia is down, I am taking to my bed.

Its raining cats and blogs

In terms of zeitgeist, a common speculation I hear is "when's it going to happen?" , with "it' being:

a. Civil unrest on a massive scale
b. or, huge stock market crash and we wake up one morning and the ATM's arent working (triggering 'a')

A symptom, perhaps, of this is the proliferation of blogs by traders, anonymous bankers and other market/economist types. There are billions of these things (hence the rather weak pun in the title above) and if you havent stumbled across a few by now then you probably live far too much of a productive life. If you do spend most of your life actually doing stuff, as opposed to surfing the net, just do a quick dip into the life of an inveterate, newly converted couch potato like myself. Simply open Google , click the tab for 'more', click blogs and enter 'market' or 'wall street' etc.

The results of this experiment will be in two 'trajectories' (as us social scientists say when we cant be bothered thinking of the right word (CBBTORW)).

{ Incidentally, other social science words we use when in a state of CBBTORW, are 'towards' ( a personal favourite because I hate its use with a particularly intense hatred. I dont see the value in publishing a academic paper that start with "Towards a theory of ....." because you should have actually gotten to the theory before you write about it. Beside which , most of the time the author usually doesnt mean 'theory' they mean 'model'), 'paradigm' (when you cant think of anything to say, you either suggest a potential new paradigm or critique an existing one), 'heuristic' (just because you inappropriattely apply a posh name to your guess doesnt mean its not still just guessing), ontological (I would place a very large bet that 98% of the people that use this word could'nt explain what it means). The consequence of this misuse of language in academic papers (as opposed to the forgivable misuse, typos and convulted syntax of casual blog writing) is that sometimes I think that the social sciences - horrible word but you hopefully know what I mean - are the study of incredibly fascinating behaviours and interactions, done very badly.

A lot of this can be understood, heuristically, within the paradigm of "physics envy", thus we can move towards an ontological theory of interdisciplinary relativism where reductionist duality is priveliged........................ Erm, Sorry about that, I just got a bit carried away. Anyway a prof I recently met was talking about 'physics envy' in his discipline, and it really struck a chord. In fact, in the social sciences, an incredible amount of time and energy has been expended in the last thirty years in what one paper described as "The Paradigm Wars: Qualitative versus Quantitative". In many commentaries, you could replace the phrase 'essential criticality' for 'a dislike of scientists, possibly based on a failed romance'. Its obvious, I hope, that a critical look at our own and othr discplines is necessary and welcome. But whining on for twenty years about science without proposing anything that would, in practice, look any different, is not critical thinking (and yes I'm talking about you Mr Schon). Fortunately, there are many, many, many great examples work in the social sciences by fantastic people who are secure enough not to 'wish they were taken more seriously like what physicist are' and who are too busy doing their own research to spend too much time worrying about whether the CERN experiments are more valid than their own interviews with anti-social youth. }

Having extended the use of brackets beyond all reasonable doubt, I should perhaps return to the main, which is the flourishing state of blogs about economics, or the markets. As an expert couch potato, having had two periods of enforced layoff in the last year and therefore too much time on my hands, I can confirm that in fact, economics blogs have become more numerous that 'alin abduction' or "Mayan calender' blogs. And i think its because so many people are expecting something disastrous to occur in the economic sphere, but they just dont know what this disastrous something might be. So they turn to blogs for the answer, because newspaper's arent telling. Which is entirely the wrong thing to do. As should be obvious by now, economists know about as much about the future of the economy as Peppa Pig does about phrenology. Economics as prediction is junk science predicated on a bed of fantasy, with a side of unreality and an extra helping of make-believe. Economics, like the social sciences, suffered from physics envy and desperately wanted to be a 'science', when it clearly was not. The real results of that self-delusion, and that intense self-focus on how their discipline was regarded, is directly implicated in the destruction of at least three national economies. That's a pretty high price for a country to pay for academic pretension.

What I learnt this Christmas........

1. The ability to open a can of "Petit Pate Ocean Fish" cat food with one operable hand by leveraging said can against feet should not be taken as a sign, by the operator, that by simple extension, a full Christmas dinner with turkey and all the trimmings is within the range of possibilities for same.
2. Never use the words "meaning" or "meaningless" within a five kilometre radius of anthropologists or philosophers who are in full possession of their faculties unless "meaning" or "meaningless" are what you actually mean (symbolically).
3. Journalism has failed.
4. "Battle: Los Angeles" is the worst movie ever made. But, there are worse (see Asylum particularly "Battle of Los Angeles").
5. The word "notion" is meaningless.
6. On the other hand, if everything has meaning then "Battle:Los Angeles" cannot be the worst film ever made because it will mean something to someone. In fact, there cannot be a worst film ever made because they will all mean something to someone.
7. A signed Lionel Messi Footy shirt is the second best present ever. The best are clippings from the goal mouth at Anfield. The worst, and therefore the best, is Knitlympics.
8. A Paradox: "Battle: Los Angeles" is measurably crap but existentially meaningful. This is called phenomenology.
9. Never interrupt your wife. Ever.
10. Cats are not performing seals and never live up to their owners boasts of cuteness/ability to do tricks/capacity to amuse/playfulness.
11. Points 5., and 6. are illustative of why some degrees are dangerous .
12. The 'science ' of applied economics can be likened as a voyage undertaken by unrelated and slightly obnoxious cats in a Warp-drive trans-light speed space-ship to discover a new planet in an as yet unobserved galaxy, where the cats not only dont understand how the space ship works, but are also unfamiliar with the concepts of 'planet', 'galaxy', 'space', 'ship' or "beam me up, Scotty'. It can thus be simply, but accurately, described as "a disaster in the making" without the compensation (for observers or humans who have accidentally gone along for the ride) of a good fireworks show at the end. The reasons for any decisions tha cats do make however, while describable, are very difficult to understand.



Thanks to everyone who came over the holiday period - Joe, Anna, Sal, Sue, Chris, Margaret, Bill, Ethan, Will.

Bus stopping

Castle Hill Hospital has been, up to recently, the solitary remaining hospital/clinic/medical facility in Hull I have not had the opportunity to inspect. It is situated on the outskirts of Hull, where semi-posh estates of semi-detatched bungalows skirt greying fields full of starlings. Incongrously, in this retiree community of Sunday morning car washing and tidy driveways, gypsy horses roam the grass verges, picking at the grass and totally ignoring the hermetically sealed people carriers and bottom of range Mercedes saloons that swish by.

The hospital's principal fame is as an oncology centre, so locally it's name tends to be articulated wordlessly - people will articulate the name with their mouths without actually saying it, a product, perhaps of superstition and fear.This type of speaking, particularly among older women, was noticed years ago by a brilliant English comedian Les Dawson. The clip is pretty dated by now, so if you dont want to watch the whole thing, the type of voiceless talking I mean is at about 1 min 15 and again at the end from about 2 mins 30 seconds. What Dawson does here is rooted in observation of a characteristic way of talking, particularly here in the north of England, and its worth a quick aside to discuss where it came from. The common account is that in the Northern towns of England during the Industrial Revolution, the factories
( particularly the cotton mills where women mostly worked), were so noisy that normal conversation was impossible. As a solution, women became expert lip readers and could hold conversations without shouting. However, what this explanation does not account for is that the phenomenon is almost entirely limited to women, and usually about 'sensitive' matters.

The hospitals focus also makes its miserable if only by dint of the sheer number of cheerful touches added. There's happy posters, nice plants and lots and lots of noticeboards where you can pick up pastel coloured leaflets (usually with pictures of trees on the front and if not that then an image of some sort of counsellor, head bent at the unnatural angle only counsellors can achieve, faint encouraging smile that's as chilling as any Medusan glance) offering help and advice. Its completely depressing, and for me would be just a reminder that I was quite ill as I'd never have a picture of a tree, or a cloud, or a puppy on my wall at home.

Then you reach the plastic surgery department. This is the real deal - graphic images of the internal structures of the human body so you can identify exactly the tendon, muscle or bone you have injured, and reflect wonderingly,: why (given how weedy and thin they all look ), why you havent just snapped one before? It's a much happier place.

And that's where todays post ends. The stiches came out on the latest injury and all is healing very well. So well in fact , that given some of us might not meet for a while, I feel obliged to post the picture below, as I have been informed there will be very little scarring, and therefore very little evidence that I'm not making the whole injury thing up.

We are all trolls...............

The morning ritual:

I become aware of a soft tickling on the nose. The tickling becomes a scratch, which then becomes a persistent pressure, half tickle, half scratch, accompanied by a constant rumbling. One eye opens and delivers the news to a brain that's still mostly floating round an alternate universe of dream, in which I'm usually some sort of Road Warrior, that its still dark. Then the unmistakeable, and unique, sensation of a vicious scimitar of keratin gently picking at the flare of my nostrils.

"Hi Tosh" I say to the cat that's sittng on my head, "Morning is it?". We trundle downstairs to the kitchen door so he can go out, an exercise that's as ritualistic as any religious service. He sits in front of the door, gently miaowing at it and glancing up anxiously at me, apparently concerned that this - of All Days - will be the day foretold in cat lore - The Day The Door Didnt Open. ,Then as soon as the slightest crack appears, he sticks his paw through as if he's Indiana Jones desperately struggling to prevent the massive boulder sealing the Tomb of Neferitititi. Once the door is opened he jerks his head forward, sniffing. A victorious little cry and he hops out, mission focused without even a glance back.

Three hours later, and at the decidely more civilised time of eight thirty, and having returned to bed, I gradually arise properly. If RHB hasnt already allowed the cat entry, he's at the window of the back door, clawing at the glass, miaowing. Once he's in , we both hit the food bowl hard - me marmalde and toast, him reconstituted something or other. Then he hops onto my knee and we read the moring papers. Opposite, there is usually RHB, with a slightly smaller cat on her knee, similarly reading.

But this tradition, this comfortable and comforting lifeway that we've developed as we've co-constructed our culture over the years, is about to change for good. Frankly, I've had enough and have decided I have better things to do. Not, I should speed to mention, of the cat. Nor, of RHB. And most definitely not of marmalade on toast. But of newspapers, and the contents thereof, and most of the content on the internet, television and radio, I am done. I'm also a bit sick of literature as well, particularly previous staples like science fiction, biographies of ancient historical figures, anything anthropological. I have never really enjoyed 'funny' books or detective works, hate reading plays and morning's too early for serious literary work that requires thinking. Autobiographies are, by definition, unbelievable and I find a source of previous excitement - lay accessible science or political works - a genre exhausted and diluted by too many poor imitations. My most reecent acquistion in this genre - "How to teach your dog quantum physics" was not only badly written, but as Tosh pointed out, used the sickeningly cutesy device of anthromorphising the author's pet in a cheap bid for readership.

I think I am justified in this disillusion based on quality alone . If 99.99% of what one recieves through media is utter rubbish (or too good to be read in the morning - an important point that would earn itself a footnote if this was an academic paper that I would not, by self definition be reading in the morning) then paying attention to media in the morning is a total waste of time. Despite this justification, I feel I need somone (other than me) to blame. and here I turn to a recent ongoing discussion between RHB and self about the interactive nature of contemporary life.

A long time ago, at the dawn of the internet, when mammoths still roamed past our apartment window near Dutch Village Road, Halifax, we eagerly welcomed the appearance of "Comments" sections in newspapers. As Comments became enabled on various sites of interest, I registered
eagerly -in all cases immediately forgetting the username and password - anxious to contribute to the growing, and welcome democracy provided by the Web. And for a few years, all was fine: environmental forums were friendly places where healthy debate would flop around aimlessly, political comment sections would host ill-informed, but lively, discussions on competing economic theories, football columns would be exercises in thinly disguised bias. Soon, interactivity became ubiquitous - every newspaper column had a space for comments, every webpage had some sort of forum or comments facility. Radio shows respond to twitters and tweets and texts and are supported by an online prescence with accompanying comments sections, even if they are just meterological forecasts. Books have websites that have more content than the original text and websites have websites about websites - all commented, noted, forumed, ranked and tweeted.

Accompanying this have come the trolls - the subject of the debate between self and RHB referred to earlier. Troll and trolling have become familiar terms to anyone usng the net and are usually defined as either corporate stooges pushing a lobbyist line, or agent provocateur of some description who just like a good argument (I suspect late teenage boys figure prominently here). Both have cluttered up comments, forums and interactive sections of the web, its true, but my meaning for the word troll is broader perhaps than most definitions. By troll, I mean anyone who posts anything online, anywhere, about anything.

How so, you might ask? Well, I reply, its because contemporary media, through its interactive nature is a great big baby. It has developed into a pre-sentient creature that, is designed to elicit (demand actually) baby talk responses from us - when newspaper columns write 'provocative' articles that allow climate sceptics space in their comments sections I feel a need to respond, but space denies anything longer than a few sentences, so a whole ecosystem is reduced to a cartton strip. When a book is accompanied by a website and asks for a review, I am duty bound to post something but all that is really required, and read, is three, four or five stars. When a radio show calls for texts or tweets, limited-character opinions flow in on subjects that require a treatise. The content doesnt matter really, its the response which is important.

So I have decided to stop responding, at least in the morning. I realise my list of material that I am self-prohibiting means there is not a lot left for me to listen to, or read in the morning. But there are solutions. This morning I read 'Bosch Operation Manual: Model 4564'. It was a good start - I am now much more informed on the operation of my fridge via content rich material, and was not obliged to respond in any way. It was a much more satisfying start to the morning than the previous one when i ended up shouting at the radio, computer and newspaper in a growing circle of frustration. I already have my eye on tomorrow's literature "Sharp Autocook MicroWave: A User's Guide".

Axe-ident. My own personal darwin.

One of the ironies life does seem to be, as I told the attending surgeon at hospital, that in at least one of my occupations, I am usually the nominated health and safety representative when i work onsite. In the most recent accident, however, I am ashamed to admit that I broke practically every piece of advice have ever paternalistically bestowed on people.


These are the circumstances. After a four day stint in Leeds of sixteen hour days welding a series of metal frames for a Christmas production of Beauty and the Beast, my back began to spasm pretty badly upon arriving home at night. So, I decided that a great way to unwind was to have a glass of wine in front of a roaring fire. The fire was lit, dinner was prepared and wine was drunk. I however was not inebriated, as only one glass had been imbibed, but was very very tired. I decided that more wood would be needed. So, I got my axe and went out on to my unlit, wet slippery deck, without my glasses or worl gloves and swung said axe at an oversized piece of wood. Of course, the axe bounced off a knot and sunk its newky honed edge into the back of my arm, about two inches up from the wrist, leaving a two and a half inch wound.

To make a long embarrasing story slightly shorter (because, of course, I now have all sorts of deadlines due tomorrow that require typewriting) I cut through the skin, grazed the bone and severed a tendon in the back of my arm.

Emergency treatment has cleaned the wound, but I am unfortunaely going to cost the medical services a bit more because I need plastic surgery to re-connect the tendon and make the wound a bit less messy. That surgery will hopefully be tomorrow.

About the only thing I can say in my defence is that my reaction was very calm - I closed the wound, elevated the hand got a ride to hospital and didnt cry. This however isnt really clear thinking, rather just habituation as I have crocked me' sen (as they say in Yorkshire) with alarming regularity.

I wish not for sumptuous bouquets of flowers delivered to my door in sympathy. But if anyone has got a decent brain hanging round that has not had it's innate 'stupidity acquiescence device' removed, please send it by first class mail.